


Falling Into Your Ocean Eyes

by BakerBee (Katzenfloh)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: John Watson is bad at feelings, Just smut, Light Dom/sub, M/M, PWP, Sub John Watson, Top Sherlock Holmes, eyekink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-09 05:53:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18910891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katzenfloh/pseuds/BakerBee
Summary: John's eyes drop, staring at the trembling fingers of his left hand. They move, hook into the space between the buttons of Sherlock's ridiculous purple shirt, fingertips touching the warm bare skin just inches away from that bloody bullet scar in his chest. The tremor has stopped.He wants it.Christ, how he wants it.





	Falling Into Your Ocean Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tornalar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tornalar/gifts).



> I'm not a native speaker. Although I had a wonderful beta (thank you so much for your patience), if you find mistakes, do not hesitate to let me know. Of course, I'm also happy about comments.
> 
> My dear tornalar, you asked for smut, so you get the smut you deserve. This is for you.

"John."

John looks up at Sherlock. He sees the reflection of the hospital room's cold white halogen light flicker in his ice blue eyes. He licks his lips in a nervous gesture, watches those unbelievably deep and knowing eyes following the path of his tongue before it hides away behind his lips again.

"No one's here."

Sherlock's hands are braced against the wall on either side of John's head.

"I know." John swallows. Clears his throat. He shivers. His fingers curl around the seam of his shirt. He feels his cheeks flare red hot.

This is not about this situation – him being pinned against a wall by Sherlock. This isn't new. He accepts it, got used to it.

No.

That's a lie.

He likes it, to be honest. Enjoys it. Loves it. Needs it from time to time. Needs _him_ doing _this_. Even in a small, sterile hospital room where they are all alone.

That's what this is about. It's about the little comfortable lie he constructed in his head. Again.

'Cause John Watson is never honest with what he wants, likes, needs, longs for. Never about such things.

He makes himself small, nearly invisible. He doesn't need much space, is easily overlooked. By instinct he chooses partners who dominate him and sooner or later they give him up. It's always the same, even with Mary. Meeting her has been the best thing that could have happened to him. He loved her. Oh, how much he loved her.

Or did he just love that Mary was the easy way?

Fulfilling everyone's expectations?

Marrying the beautiful girl, getting the well-paid job, house, dog, one and a half children. A little bit of _normality_.

Normality is what should have felt right, but it felt wrong. Everything felt bloody wrong. He really screwed up. He should have ended it before it even began.

Everyone calls him brave.

He isn't.

_Normality_ isn't what John Watson needs.

So, it's not about this unbelievable mess of a day, about this creepy case that made Sherlock end up here.

It's not about Molly bursting in and telling him about this idiot of a flatmate being patched up in the casualty unit just a floor below from the surgery he was working in. It's not about this. It's not.

It's about the bloody hospital. About the people who work here. Today. In this very moment. People he knows very well. Something like friends. Colleagues just waiting for him to return to his work one floor up.

It's about the possibility that one of them could open the unlocked door to this hospital room…

"You're worried someone might come in and see you _enjoying this_."

John swallows again and looks everywhere but at Sherlock, unsure what to say.

"You shouldn’t think about it." Sherlock's deep voice is merely a whisper.

"Don’t do this."

"What?"

"Deducing. Analysing. Me."

Sherlock's right. Of course, he's right. He's Sherlock.

John hates it when Sherlock is right about him while he himself still tries to deny it. Tries to deny what he is, what he feels, needs. To deny everything.

Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes.

"John, are you sure you want to think about it _now_?"

He doesn't.

But it's all about the hospital, still. Being _here_. Doing _this_. Wanting _this_. It should feel wrong, but… it feels freaking right. Fucking arousing.

"No." he says.

"Exactly. Don't be ridiculous."

Sherlock leans in, but he leaves John some room.

An option.

Letting John decide.

_Don't be ridiculous._

He decides.

'Cause he wants to do this.

He inches a finger toward one button of Sherlock's shirt and his lips part. He sees Sherlock looking down at him like the arrogant arse he is. Ice blue eyes travel over every inch of his aging skin, observing his expression, deducing his thoughts, surely discovering the rush of arousal and anxiety pulsing through his veins. There's something in these pale blue eyes John hasn't seen there in the last few minutes. Maybe because it wasn't there. Maybe because he didn't want to see it.

"You want this."

It's not a question.

"I-"

John's eyes drop, staring at the trembling fingers of his left hand. They move, hook into the space between the buttons of Sherlock's ridiculous purple shirt, fingertips touching the warm bare skin just inches away from that bloody bullet scar in his chest. The tremor has stopped.

He wants it.

Christ, how he wants it.

To hell with what anyone might think of him, of them.

Sherlock leans in closer, and John lets his head knock against the wall behind him. His eyes meet the clear blue of Sherlock's again, and he feels his body fill with pleasure. He sucks in a breath, ashamed.

"You like it."

"Like what?"

"Being controlled." Sherlock's deep voice echoes through his head.

"What? No!" His body tenses.

"I know you like it."

John opens his mouth again to protest, but Sherlock's haughty look silences him before a single word passes his lips.

"I can _see_ you like it. Army man. Soldier. Used to taking orders, executing commands, never asking about right or wrong."

Sherlock is still staring down at him. Observing. Deducing. Hands still lingering next to John's head. The heat of Sherlock's breath hits John with full force. His mouth goes dry.

Enough.

This is enough.

He grabs at the fabric of Sherlock's shirt and pulls him close. When he kisses him, he senses Sherlock's whole body going rigid for a second.

"Not confident enough to give me orders, eh?" he whispers against Sherlock's cheek.

"If only you knew."

John grins against the shell of Sherlock's ear.

He hears the scraping sound of fingernails against the concrete wall of the hospital room. Feels large, warm hands touching the oversensitive skin behind his ears, his neck, his collarbone. Through the fabric of his shirt he feels long fingers stroking over his tense shoulders and arms, wandering lower, grabbing his hips. It breaks something open inside of him.

He's half hard against Sherlock's thigh, knowing he feels it, knowing he wants Sherlock to feel it, knowing Sherlock knows this as well. John's ashamed and hungry, anxious and longing all at once, not sure he wants to go further, but, God, he doesn't want Sherlock to stop this.

"Jesus." He moans against Sherlock's neck, kisses the bare skin of his collarbone, lets his tongue join his lips. With sweaty hands he reaches behind Sherlock, grabs his belt, pulls him closer, rocks against him like he can't get close enough.

Sherlock tilts his head back, black curls trembling with the movement. He watches John again, observes him, absorbs each of his emotions, his ocean eyes staring.

John feels long fingers tighten around his hips, feels the focusing ice blue irises and the sheer presence of the tall body arousing him instead of Sherlock's fingers, lips, and tongue.

He presses his face into Sherlock's neck, moans against his pale skin, kisses him, sucks hard.

"Sherlock… I’m going to…"

Sherlock's right hand slides down his hip and across his lower belly. His fingers stroke a thin line between the waistband of his trousers and shirt – an unspoken question.

John presses against the wall to give Sherlock the space he needs.

Lets him do what he does so well.

Lets Sherlock's right hand slide down between their bodies and open his belt, lets his slender fingers slide into his jeans and inside his pants in one flowing movement.

The barely-there touch of Sherlock's cold fingertips sends a shot of pleasure through John's veins. He gasps in surprise and then groans while these horrifyingly beautiful long fingers touch him gently, stop and curl around him, using the moisture of his precome for slicking.

He tilts his head back against the wall; his eyes meet Sherlock's again. He moans into the room and then bites his lip, hard, when he remembers that everyone on the other side of this thin wall could hear them. Could hear the sounds this pompous ass of a man gets out of his throat by only using the intensity of his clear blue coloured eyes, the weight of his body, his proficient fingers.

"You don't want them to hear you, remember?"

Sherlock knows John well enough to recognize he's getting close, and knowing this sends a new wave of pleasure through John's veins.

"Jesus Christ, please, I'm-"

"Quiet, _John_." It’s a long, low, deep drawl and almost makes John come.

It's awkward and the grip of his fingers around Sherlock's belt tightens, almost frantic, hectic, wanting to hold onto something. It's too much, being held against the cold of the wall like this, not being allowed to moan, to yell, his cock aching under the constricting fabric of his pants and jeans, throbbing in the tight grip of Sherlock's stroking fingers, still painfully cooler than John's hypersensitive skin.

He is trapped by Sherlock's gaze, by these beautiful clear eyes. They don't allow John to avert his glance.

It's too much for John, far too much, he's struggling against this wiry but strong body, being carried away by the rush of his near release, terrified, thrilled, greedy. He's feeling fucking high and just wants to yell this fucking beautiful name.

He sucks in a sharp breath and tries to hold it. Fails terribly. Every single inhalation is a piece of Sherlock, and Sherlock's name is everywhere now, in the depth of his lungs, in the back of his throat, on his frantic tongue, on his trembling lips, in his stifled groans and whines.

He bites down his scream and comes so hard his brain whites out and his toes curl in his shoes. The back of his head bumps against the wall as he bites on his lips to silence his moans. The lightning pleasure of his orgasm rushes through his veins, almost like pain.

It takes John a few seconds to let the heat subside, return to reality and realize it's over. He's no longer pressed against the wall but held close instead, panting hard against Sherlock's chest. His fingers stop trembling against the small of Sherlock's back before they loosen their grip and slide down.

John huffs, still breathless.

"As I said." Sherlock murmurs into his hair.

"Said what?"

"You like it." He can hear the haughty smile in Sherlock's voice. "Being controlled, my dear soldier."

"Arrogant cock."

John takes a step back against the wall as he realizes that Sherlock is wiping his stained hand on his trouser leg.

"Stop it." He wrinkles his nose.

"It's yours."

"You can keep it."

"Oh, thank you." Sherlock snorts.

John looks down at his wet trousers and slowly realizes the extent of the mess they've made. He sucks in a breath.

"Fuck."

Sherlock follows his gaze. Grins.

"I'm sure you have another pair of pants and trousers in your locker."

"'Course I have."

"Do you want me to fetch them? I'm quite sure you do not wish to walk around your funny little workplace in-"

"No. Get them." John interrupts him, rolling his eyes heavenwards.

"As you wish. But first, let me emphasize how fascinated I am with the effect my eyes seem to have on you, John. This warrants further investigation."

John leans forward, lets his forehead rest against Sherlock's shoulder, hiding his blushing cheeks.

“Idiot." He huffs into Sherlock's shirt.

He hates it when Sherlock's right.

Sherlock is always right.

He's Sherlock, of course.


End file.
